


Ben Matheson Is Dead

by biblionerd07



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:07:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben Matheson is dead, and Bass has lost another family member.  Missing scene from the pilot when Bass reads the letter from Tom Neville.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ben Matheson Is Dead

**Author's Note:**

> We get a teensy glimpse of emotion out of Monroe when he reads the news that Ben is dead, but (knowing all we know about him now) I think this would have made him more emotional than we see. And I have major Bass headcanons because I love me some complicated, tortured characters with tragic back-stories.

_Ben Matheson is dead._

Bass raised a hand to his lips. He held his breath to keep himself from trembling. There were men waiting at attention and he needed to dismiss them because he was going to fly into a million pieces and no one could see General— _President_ —Monroe fall apart. He cleared his throat and every head snapped to look at him.

“You’re dismissed.” He said, trying to sound haughty and unfeeling.

“Sir?” His guards were confused, and rightly so; he rarely went without at least one guard these days.

“Get out,” he ground out, teeth clenched. No one questioned his sudden anger. Everyone knew General Monroe had a hair trigger and it was impossible to know what would set him off. They left and he pulled the tent flaps down around him, even though it was sweltering.

_Ben Matheson is dead._

He dropped back into his chair and let his head fall, gripping his hair in his hands. This wasn’t just his strategic plans falling apart; this was about more than bait for Miles or torture for Rachel or a way to get the power back on. Ben was dead.

_Ben Matheson is dead._

Ben, serious, stoic Ben. Ben, who had read stories to Bass and Miles while they were tucked in together on sleepovers. Ben, who had helped Bass pass algebra even though he had better things to be doing. Ben, who had given Bass advice on how to be a big brother when they’d found out about his impending siblings. Ben, who had covered for Bass when his parents had called the Matheson house looking for him while he and Miles were out drinking, thinking they were teenage kings. Ben, who had brought Bass a book on the Revolutionary War from the high school library the year he was obsessed with all things military history. Ben, who had helped Bass repair the window he broke playing baseball in the Matheson's backyard. Ben, who had taught Bass and Miles about blood brothers. Ben, who had driven out from Chicago to come to Bass’s family’s funeral so Bass could stand wedged in the safety of a Matheson on either side.

Bass needed to get a handle on himself. He felt tears on his cheeks and wasn’t even surprised. He cried a lot; always had. He blamed it on having sisters, but he’d been a crier long before the girls had come along. And Ben had once told him that was okay, too.

He’d always known he’d have to make sacrifices as a general and a president. He’d told himself long ago he’d given up on family ties, bonds of friendship—since the night he’d woken up to find Miles, trembling and pale, raising a gun to his face. He told himself now Ben didn’t matter, never had.

But he did, and he always had. Because when Bass and Miles had become brothers, Bass had inherited an older brother, too. Ben had taken the job in stride, like he’d done with all his duties his whole life. And even though Bass hadn’t seen him in a decade or more, he’d always been Ben, his big brother, not as close as Miles but steady and constant and _alive_ but now he wasn’t.

_Ben Matheson is dead._

Bass stuffed his knuckles into his mouth to cram a sob back into his throat. This was not okay. He took a deep, shuddering breath. He took a swig of the drink he’d been preparing, ice now long melted. It was better this way, really. He was free of another attachment. He was stronger for it. He swiped the tears from his cheeks, rubbed the rest of his face because it was so dirty the tears had left streaks of clean skin beneath, though none of his men would have the audacity to mention it, not even Jeremy. He squared his shoulders and prepared himself to walk out of his tent.  
  
 _Ben Matheson is dead._  
  
Good.


End file.
